The Murdered Banker

by Augusto De Angelis

  Maccari and De Vincenzi started.

  “He made good time,” Maccari observed. He wished the doctor had taken a few minutes longer since he didn’t want to get caught up in the mechanics of the investigation.

  The doctor appeared, practically running. He was young and thin, with glasses, his nose sharp as a beak. He looked as if he were still a student, someone who didn’t eat every day. He was carrying a black bag under his arm. It must have been one of his first official calls. One of his first crimes. A cadaver to study. He was conscious of the importance of the matter—and of himself, too. He found himself face to face with the other two men and advanced with his hand extended.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Doctor Sigismondi, from emergency services on via Agnello.”

  The other two introduced themselves.

  “You’ll find him in there,” De Vincenzi told him, pointing towards the door on the left. “He’s dead. I’d ask you, doctor, to make a note of the exact position of the body… get one of the officers to help you. You, Rossi, make yourself useful to the doctor. And I’d also ask you, doctor, to undress him—taking care that nothing should fall out of his pockets—and to let me have his clothing. But first, examine him carefully. See if there’s been a struggle, and how long ago he was killed.”

  The doctor, not wanting to seem wet behind the ears, answered as if explaining something to him.

  “Approximately, you mean. No one can establish precisely when a man has died. Actually, one could determine it, but only with the right tools and taking the surrounding temperature… and these things are lacking.”

  Meanwhile, he’d removed his hat and overcoat and had started for the door indicated to him when Cruni came back in looking satisfied.

  In a strange voice, as if he wanted everyone to hear, he said, “Not a thing, sir! The bathroom is empty.”

  He looked around and went towards De Vincenzi, signalling that he had something to say.

  “Tell me,” said the inspector.

  The sergeant spoke, his voice extremely quiet, almost muffled. “Look in there yourself, over there… the bathroom is a mess. You might say there’d been a struggle. And I found this on the floor.”

  De Vincenzi took the object Cruni was holding and looked at it carefully. A phial of perfume, gold, one of those pretty little things women put in their purses. Engraved all over. He took it between two fingers and held it up against the light so he could see through it. “Colourless,” he muttered. He sniffed and turned abruptly. “Doctor!”

  “What is it?”

  “Look here,” and he held the phial out to him.

  The doctor observed it, removed the stopper and brought it to his nose. “Bitter almonds! Where did you find it? Strange!”

  “What do you mean, strange?”

  “To have found this phial somewhere other than in its natural place!”

  “And according to you, where would that be… the natural place for this phial?”

  “A hospital or a chemist’s. I don’t think I’m mistaken when I tell you that it contains prussic acid.”

  The young doctor continued to look at the phial.

  Maccari and De Vincenzi were quiet. They both felt a shiver run down their backs.

  The dead man had been killed by a shot from a revolver. So what was the prussic acid doing there?

  3

  The First Inquiries

  All three of them stood staring at the golden phial the doctor held in his hand.

  The first to speak was the young doctor, who saw in this another way to enhance his role.

  “In any case,” he said, putting the phial in his pocket, “I’ll let you know exactly what it is by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  But De Vincenzi needed to collect his thoughts for a few more minutes, to concentrate. To take note, chiefly, of his own state of mind, since he felt that his mind was not yet clear, nor his mood calm. He had the impression that all these facts and even the physical objects around him were escaping him and disappearing. And as they vanished, they began a crazy dance, a sort of witches’ Sabbath.

  “Doctor, will you take a look in there now?”

  His tone was icy. Even the doctor looked at him, surprised. But he nodded and hurried into the parlour.

  Cruni took hold of the inspector’s sleeve.

  “Go in there yourself, sir!” he mumbled, his tone almost pleading, so strong was his desire that his boss should see what he’d seen, and draw the conclusions that had escaped him.

  After a brief hesitation, De Vincenzi made up his mind, and the two men followed the doctor.

  Maccari stayed back on his own. He was thinking. And as usual, his thoughts came to his lips in the form of words. But he only spoke to himself.

  “I said so! As far as I’m concerned we’re only at the beginning…”

  He felt defeated. A great weariness came over him and he sat down.

  “Tomorrow morning, I’ll say to my wife once more: ‘My dear, only three more years, three long years… and then my pension! Retirement!’ And she’ll shuffle round the house in her slippers, grumbling: ‘Great, your pension… for all that they’ll give you!’”

  But his thoughts were constantly shifting and they turned again to the incident he’d have liked to wipe from his mind for ever.

  “The smell of gunpowder… a door half open… no sign of a break-in… a body. My pension! And the studies on method… the method! The description of the suspect… the significant facts. And all those people who steal and kill without even knowing the consequences. If only I didn’t have to bother with it all.”

  He was startled when Sergeant Cruni ran back into the room.

  “The telephone… where’s the telephone?”

  Maccari looked up at him. A few seconds went by before he answered, because he couldn’t think what those words meant.

  “Oh! Yes there it is, to the right, in the entrance hallway.”

  Cruni ran to it and grabbed the receiver. Within a few moments he was speaking with the inspector on duty at the station, telling him that De Vincenzi was on via Monforte at Signor Aurigi’s house where there was a dead man, and that the dead man was the banker Garlini. At the other end of the line, the inspector on night duty listened distractedly, taking notes. Finally, with the air of someone who wondered what purpose was served by recounting all these things to him if his colleague De Vincenzi was there on the spot, he asked, “And so?”

  But Cruni wasn’t finished.

  “De Vincenzi says you’ll find Giannetto Aurigi in his office right now. He left him there himself and asked Officer Paoli not to let him go. Now the inspector asks that someone accompany him here right away. Listen, sir, the inspector says to send him here with two officers… no, no… without handcuffs… the officers should actually pretend that there’s nothing the matter, and not say a word to him about the body.”

  Maccari had been listening from the other room. When Cruni returned, he asked, “Giannetto Aurigi is at the station?”

  “Yes! Talk about strange, eh, sir?”

  The inspector turned just as De Vincenzi reappeared at the door wearing an ironic smile. “He wanted a nice crime!” he exclaimed.

  But all at once, as if to erase the sound of that sentence, he asked Maccari brusquely, “Do you feel there’s a mystery here?”

  “Me? No. I sense something worse: a tragedy.”

  “Why do you say tragedy?” De Vincenzi asked, looking him straight in the eyes.

  “You’ll see!”

  For his part, De Vincenzi had the same impression. In that room, in that apartment, a heavy, gloomy atmosphere hung over everything like an invisible weight—something monstrous, inhuman. And not only the mystery of the body, but some other unthinkable thing. He felt it. Not only was Aurigi mixed up in it—the friend with whom he’d studied at school and who was a poet like him—but everything, all of it felt strange.

  “And you had Aurigi with you at the station?”

&
nbsp; The question brought De Vincenzi back to reality. He smiled.

  What a coincidence!

  “He’s your friend, you said?”

  De Vincenzi was once more lost in thought. He muttered, “Leave it! It’s terrible…”

  As if to shake off the torpor threatening to overcome him, he suddenly turned towards the sergeant.

  “Wake up the porters at once and bring them to me here! Have you phoned San Fedele?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll bring them here right away. Inspector Boggi, who’s standing in for you tonight, says he’ll take care of phoning the chief constable.”

  As he went out of the back door, the sergeant failed to hear the inspector grumbling, “The police inspector, pah! We’ll talk about that tomorrow morning.”

  He had to act now; he wanted to hurry things up. He went to the door and called for the doctor, who was still bent over the body he’d laid out on the sofa. He turned, saw the inspector, glanced again at the dead man and then returned to the drawing room, slowly wiping one hand against the other, like someone drying his hands.

  “You want to know how long he’s been dead, right?” He shrugged and said quickly, “The first signs of rigor mortis have set in… it must be two hours… two and a half. Over to you.”

  “What about his clothes?”

  “They’re in there, I haven’t searched them. But if you’ll allow me, I’ll continue.” And without waiting for an answer, he went back to the parlour.

  In the meantime, Maccari continued to look around, all the while buttoning up his overcoat, as if the gesture could help him decide to get going and get away from the scene.

  All at once he saw something shiny near the sofa. He bent down to pick it up. De Vincenzi watched him.

  Instead of showing De Vincenzi the object, Maccari held it in his fingers. He asked, “Did you find something over there?”

  De Vincenzi mechanically pulled a piece of paper halfway out of his pocket, and then quickly put it back to hide it.

  “Yes, something… just what I needed in order to confuse me even more. You?”

  “Me? Look at this!” Maccari held out the shiny object his podgy fingers were toying with.

  A tube of lipstick. One of those pretty little tubes women carry around in their bags.

  De Vincenzi looked at it, but made no comment. At that moment Cruni arrived with the couple who served as porters.

  A strange couple: she young, quite pretty and buxom. And she was obviously afraid, but it was equally clear that a quiet irritation was troubling her generous bosom. He was a puny thing, rather gaunt, timid and completely terrified.

  The woman spoke right away, without pause, approaching De Vincenzi as if she understood that he was the one she needed to address.

  “What’s wrong? A theft, eh? If something’s been stolen, I can tell you myself who the thief is… I expected it. And it’s his fault… that idiot’s… because he should never have rented out the attic! But he has a kind heart.”

  She pointed to indicate her husband, who had started trembling and stuttering: “Rosa! Rosetta! What are you saying? Wait before you speak… you don’t know anything yet!”

  Suddenly full of unexpected energy, the runt turned towards the two policemen who were staring at him.

  “Is it true, gentlemen? We don’t know anything yet! Why did you wake us up? What’s going on? Absolutely nothing!”

  De Vincenzi had recovered his sang-froid. He’d gone back to being Commissioner for Public Safety and even his tone of voice had changed, become almost common—however unlike him that might be, proper gentleman that he was.

  “You were sleeping, eh? The usual story. But shut up now.”

  He turned to the man with a hunch that he would speak more freely, while the woman would give him the runaround.

  “Come here, you, and answer my questions.”

  The porter took a step forward, but his wife grabbed him and drew him aside with such violence that he teetered.

  “Me, me! Ask me! What do you think he knows? During the day he’s in the town hall. He works… he earns three hundred and seventy-five lire a month! Big deal! He really doesn’t know how to do anything. At night he eats and then goes to bed! What do you think he knows?”

  “And you on the other hand?”

  “I spend the entire day in the lodge. I know everyone. I’m on my feet every evening until midnight. I close the main door at eleven; but it takes me a long time to get to bed.”

  De Vincenzi turned to Maccari. “Do you know them?”

  “Never seen them. Have you ever been to the police station, you two?”

  The woman protested indignantly. “Never! Oh! What do you mean!?”

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Me? Nothing.”

  De Vincenzi looked questioningly at Cruni and the two officers, but they too shook their heads.

  “Good,” he exclaimed. “So come here, little lady. Answer only when I ask you a question, and not so much chatter. Understood?”

  “As long as you ask me things I know!”

  Before continuing, the inspector turned to the sergeant.

  “Go downstairs, Cruni. When they arrive from San Fedele with… that man, stop them and have him go into the lodge. I’ll call for him.”

  Cruni disappeared again through the doorway and De Vincenzi turned back to the woman. She was curious, following his every movement, a faintly sarcastic smile on her lips.

  “So… what time did you close the main door last night?”

  “At eleven. What time should I have closed it?”

  “You were in the lodge all day and throughout the evening?”

  “Oh! What a question! Where should I have been?”

  “Think hard before answering me: did you see Signor Aurigi during the day?”

  The woman shrugged. “Yes, naturally, he was going in and out.”

  “What time? Give me the times when you saw him. Think carefully.”

  The woman’s face was hard to read.

  “How should I know? So many people go by during the day! He must have gone out and come back at the usual times… in the morning at eleven—he never goes out before then. Then he comes back at one… he goes out in the afternoon. Wait. Today he must have gone out around three-forty-five. I know because he asked me if someone had come to look for him and I was ironing just then… and a short time later it was four, because I stopped ironing. I know it was four because I looked at the clock. At four-thirty the administrator was supposed to come and I wanted him to find everything in order. Not that things are not always in order, but you know…”

  The inspector interrupted her.

  “Keep going!”

  The woman started.

  “Eh? What do you want?”

  “Keep going!”

  “But you’re interrupting me! Then… then… for sure, I can tell you… I remember it… Signor Aurigi came back, it must have been five. He wasn’t alone.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “An older man, upright, very distinguished.”

  “Had you seen him before?”

  “Never.”

  The response was categorical. The woman was undoubtedly sincere. For that matter, why shouldn’t she be? As yet, she understood nothing about it.

  “And did they leave?”

  “He… that gentleman left late, by himself. We were eating, and my husband had come back. It must have been half past seven, maybe later.”

  “And Aurigi?”

  “He went out too, at nine, perhaps before. He was dressed for the theatre. He was going to La Scala.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Where would he be going? It’s hardly carnival time, when one goes to the balls! And then, he’s always going to La Scala.”

  “Go on!”

  “Go on… go on… I have nothing else to say. I didn’t see him any more.”

  “You went to bed at midnight?”

  “Wait… I’ll tell you.”

 
The woman paused. But her embarrassment appeared at once.

  “Look. Last night I went to bed earlier. Right after I closed the door. I didn’t feel well… neuralgia, I suffer from neuralgia.”

  “Fine.”

  “What do you mean, fine!” the woman screamed.

  De Vincenzi shrugged. With all her chattering, the woman had served to help him pull himself together, but she was irritating him.

  “Does Aurigi have a servant?”

  She had to think about that question; it hadn’t yet occurred to her. She looked around, as if for the answer.

  “Well, yes. Isn’t he here? Didn’t you find him at home?”

  Maccari and De Vincenzi looked at one another. Maccari drew up his shoulders. It could be a clue: a person who should have been there wasn’t. Instead of the servant they’d found a dead man in the house. But both of them felt that it wasn’t the right thread. It would have been too simple—a common crime, a thug’s crime. And it wasn’t like that. There was something behind it. Something worse.

  “No. We haven’t found him. Did you see him go out?”

  “No, but it’s funny. Giacomo never goes out.”

  “His name is Giacomo?”

  “Yes. Giacomo Macchi. I know because he gets a letter every week.”

  “Is he old?”

  “Well… he must be fifty. How should I know? He’s an older man. He’s grey.”

  De Vincenzi began again to question her about what particularly interested him.

  “Aurigi… does Signor Aurigi receive ladies at home?”

  The woman reacted with defiance rather than surprise.

  “Ladies? Why would I know that? What does it have to do with the break-in?”

  “Who told you there’d been a break-in?”

  “Oh! What was it, then? Why are you here? What’s happened?”

  “Didn’t you hear any noise in the night after one? The main door opening and closing? Anything unusual or suspicious?”